Sharp, staccato trills of thought, then abrupt modulation
to the minor third. Rows and rows of little
yellow flowers shifting, subtly sifting into
some uncanny rhomboid tessellation,
faces coldly radiant.

Two trees and a porch-post look as if smote
into the earth by some foreign god, a desolate
triptych, singular in unity and purpose -
their parallel nature has the thrill of death.
A sort of tangible absence presses outward from them,
weighing on the grass and ground. The flowers nod
in assent, dipping in brittle, geometric counterpoint.
There is an almost soothing quality to the pressure:
the mind wishes to acquiesce though the spirit is appalled;
meanwhile, the body is transfixed - crucified between opposing tensions.
A shadow, divorced from material cause, descends from the left.